


As Real As I Am

by DisraeliGears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The First Avenger, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smut, Steve and Bucky finding and losing eachother, Steve rescues Bucky, This is honestly porn that grew 10k of plot around it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 02:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30132336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisraeliGears/pseuds/DisraeliGears
Summary: “I ain’t ready to die just yet. And I thought… I thought to myself; Jesus, if this is my last night in Brooklyn before I’m dead, you’ll forgive me for holding Steve just one more time.”Bucky and Steve before the war, during the war, and the endless after. A tale of love, pain, and lost things.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 86





	As Real As I Am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/gifts).



> I wanted to write Steve and Bucky having rough and sappy sex in the woods right after Steve does his big rescue. But then a story grew out of it, and pain and drama and angst, and we ended up here. Alas. Enjoy ;)

It’s dark in the apartment when Steve lets himself in, with dull orange squares of light sitting on the dusty scuffed floorboards from where the streetlights filter through the equally dusty windows. He distractedly slides the deadbolt across, and then undoes it again in the same movement, remembering that Bucky has to be able to get in when he finally trundles his way haphazardly home.

Steve drops the keys onto the little kitchen table with a clatter, leans on a chair. He takes in a long breath, lets it back out just as long.

“ _Hell_.” He mutters under his breath, swipes his bangs out of his face and goes to the sink. He sticks his mouth under the tap and drinks a few swallows of water, and when he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, it’s finally stopped shaking. Ever since that conversation with Dr. Erskine, since he had been taken aside by the MPs, he’s been vibrating at a low and constant frequency. He’s got the paper crumpled in his coat still, the ink barely dry. It doesn’t seem _real_ , but he can feel the crinkly mass of it in his inside breast pocket.

Steve shrugs his way out of his coat, hangs it on it’s requisite hook by the door. He doesn’t bother to flick on the lights, just shuffles his way to his corner room in the dark, which is why he about catches his death when he hears from deep in the dark of the sitting room,

“Someone had a late night.”

Steve yelps and grabs the doorframe of his room to steady himself, the other hand coming up to clutch at his chest.

“ _Jesus, Bucky!_ ” he hisses, glowering towards the couch.

All that’s visible of Bucky is the bottom of his shoes and some of his OD green lower legs, propped up over the armrest of the couch and catching a beam of light from outside. The more he looks, though, the more he can make out the gleam of Bucky’s profile in the dark, the vague mass of his body, and the glowing ember of the end of his cigarette.

“Coulda given me a heart attack, ya creep.” Steve says, coming closer and flicking the toe of Bucky’s shoe in good natured annoyance.

Bucky’s arm reaches out in the dark and turns the dial of the little oil lamp he apparently had burning on the side table, bathing the little room in a dull but warm, syrupy light. He ashes his cigarette on a folded napkin, then takes a slow drag.

“You out drinkin’ late, Stevie, or did you find yourself a good time gal after all?” his smirk is lascivious and rakish, and it matches his wide-open shirt and unkempt hair. He _is_ Bucky Barnes, however, so he makes it look artful and inspired rather than messy.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. “Speak for yourself. Weren’t you supposed to be out cutting a rug into the wee hours?”

Bucky snorts, rubs his eyebrow with his thumb, and breaks eye contact.

“Nah. The girls wanted to go see Duke Ellington in Midtown but I told ‘em I gotta be at the docks at oh-seven hundred. Ain’t shlepping there and back on my last night home.”

Steve can’t help but smirk. Leave it to Bucky to find girls too grand for him.

“And it wasn’t cuz you wanted to spend more time here with little ol’ me?” Steve tries to keep his voice teasing, but it smarts a bit. His hopes shine out through his pores bright as a sunbeam when it comes to Bucky Barnes.

Bucky fixes him with a look.

“Maybe. Wasn’t it funny then, that I come home and you’re nowhere to be found?”

Steve rolls his eyes and tries his best to look unphased and innocent. He takes up Bucky’s little pile of ash, tosses it in the bin and returns from the kitchen with a weathered tin can instead. Bucky taps his cigarette into it with an imperious air, still watching Steve.

If Steve didn’t know better, he’d say there’s an air of green envy about Bucky’s face.

“You know I sure weren’t doing anything salacious. Just needed some air, a long walk. Went and visited Ma’s grave, brought her a little bag of those saltwater taffies.”

Bucky’s face softens a tiny bit, and he smiles his gorgeous lopsided smile. He sits up, taking his feet onto the floor, then he drops what’s left of his cigarette into the little tin, uses his hands to scoop invisible ash off the coffee table and dumps it into it. He continues to have busy hands, fussing about with his unbuttoned uniform shirt, as if it doesn’t fit him perfectly as a mannequin, and he doesn’t look up at Steve where he’s leaning against the back of the couch.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve says, watching closely for every bit of Bucky Barnes minutiae that suggests his friend is unsettled.

Bucky huffs immediately, straightens up, sniffs loudly.

“Yeah, yeah. Just thinking about when I’ll feel this old couch against my ass again.” He flashes a stiff, showy grin that’s all sizzle, no steak; “Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and the apartment will burn down and take the couch with it, once and for all, eh?”

Steve snorts, rolls his eyes. This old song and dance about Bucky hating their ratty old couch is very familiar.

“Genius rationale, Buck. Real well thought-out idea.”

“Just saying, Stevie, she’s hell on my back, and she damn near breaks yours.” Bucky stretches as he gets up, pops his back, then pulls his arms out of his uniform so he’s just in the crisp white of his undershirt. Steve watches as he folds it, expertly and clearly well trained by a drill sergeant, and adds it to the stack of his folded coat, tie and his cap, neatly placed on top.

Steve keeps watching him, noting that Bucky still seems to be lingering, straightening things and pressing creases.

“Well. Off to bed then, I guess.” Steve says.

Bucky seems to jump a bit, and nods, flashing another strange smile. “Yeah. I’m beat, and gotta be up early tomorrow.”

“You said.” Steve replies. He doesn’t move from where he stands, but neither does Bucky. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Fit as a fiddle, Rogers.” Bucky says, and leaves off of his uniform, stooping to undo his crisp new boots. “Go to bed, I’ll be right after ya.”

Steve hesitates for a second longer, watching as Bucky studiously unties his boots, then opts not to linger. Hovering, he’s sure, isn’t going to bring to a head whatever deep wound it is that’s festering.

Steve goes the bathroom, cleans his teeth, washes his face and scrubs behind his ears. When he glances in the mirror, he can see Bucky in his shorts, folding his wool trousers and adding them to the tidy pile. His arms are tanned, but legs pale, just like every other man with an outdoor summer job. His dog tags glint in the low light from the oil lamp, flashing like silver fish in the dark of the ocean.

“G’night, Buck.” Steve says before he ducks into the bedroom, watching Bucky’s broad, muscular back.

“Night, Steve.”

Steve shrugs out of his old shirt, drops his trousers and tosses them over a chair for tomorrow, then crawls into his bed, which squeaks and grunts with age as he settles. He closes his eyes and faces away from the door, but listens to Bucky move about, listens to the water run, the toilet flush, to the sound of the floorboards creaking under his feet.

He’s studiously been ignoring it all day, but it hits Steve desperately hard that this could be the last time he hears these noises. Bucky could get on that boat tomorrow and never grace Steve with his smile ever again, never shuffle mindlessly around in the living room, never make all these little innocent noises again. This could be the last time the dirty lightbulbs cast a glow on that gorgeous face, and it cuts Steve up inside.

He sniffs and twists his head to wipe the tear that escapes onto the pillowcase. Bucky comes in then, quiet as can be, and Steve hears him sit on his bed, shuffle about a bit as he lays back, and sigh as he finally settles.

Steve tries as hard as he can to keep a reign on his feelings, but his eyes have other ideas, and they steadily drop tears. He knows he can’t sniff, because Bucky will hear and know precisely what’s happening, but it’s a near thing. God, Steve misses Bucky as if an entire half of his body has been violently ripped away, and the man hasn’t even left yet.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky says, quietly, and Steve can’t reply because his voice will definitely break. He settles for trying to hum affirmatively, and wipes hard at his face.

There’s the _groink_ of old springs, and Steve about jumps into the air when he feels a hand touch his hip. He turns over, blinking up at Bucky, whose giant blue eyes are wide and staring.

“Can I sleep here with you?” Bucky says, and his voice is missing all the bravado of earlier.

Steve wipes his face and sniffs hard, and he feels that Bucky’s hand on him is shaking.

What can he say?

_You said we couldn’t do this._

_You said we had to quit all that._

_You said we had to leave off before we got killed or put in prison._

_You said we couldn’t be together anymore and it broke something vital inside my heart._

“Of course.” Steve says, his voice hoarse, and moves closer to the edge of the bed for Bucky to slide in behind him.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate, just snugs his knees up behind Steve’s, wraps his arm right around his middle and pulls him in tight. Steve feels him shove his forehead against the back of his neck, and feels the shaky breath rustle his hair.

“Buck, _you’re not okay._ ” Steve says, sniffing and holding on to Bucky’s arm around him.

Bucky shudders and holds him tighter. “I’m scared, Steve. _Jesus,_ I’m so scared.”

Steve lets out a long breath. He’s scared too. Absolutely terrified.

“You’re gonna be fine, Buck. I swear it, you’ll come back home.” It’s a reckless thing to say, but it feels like what Bucky wants to hear.

“I know. I know, fuck. It’s just, God damn it Steve, one of the girls, she was talking about how her uncle got his face melted off by mustard gas in the Great War… and your pops, he never came back at all…” Bucky’s voice is so small now, hiding against the knobs of Steve’s spine, “I ain’t ready to die just yet. And I thought… I thought to myself; Jesus, if this is my last night in Brooklyn before I’m dead, you’ll forgive me for holding Steve just one more time.” He says it all in a choked-out rush, and squeezes Steve tighter against him as he finishes.

Steve swallows down the choked little noise of anguish that rises in his throat, and he wriggles in Bucky’s arms enough that he can turn around and face him.

Bucky’s face is lit with the orange glow from outside, and his pale blue eyes look bright gold as he blinks at Steve. Steve puts both hands on Bucky’s cheeks, stokes his thumbs over his prickly jaw.

Steve isn’t sure what he can say, so he says, “I’ve missed you so bad, Buck.”

Bucky screws his eyes closed and turns so he can press his lips to Steve’s hand.

“I know. I know you have. I’ve missed you too, so damn bad.”

Steve squirms closer, tips his chin up and presses a light kiss to Bucky’s mouth. Bucky kisses back, hard, and then makes a pained noise and pulls away, presses his face to the pillow.

“We can’t, Stevie. You know that, I told you a thousand times. It ain’t safe, it ain’t _right_.”

Steve doesn’t move away, holds on tight.

“And I told you a thousand times right back, I don’t care. And I also told you to damn well quite being a martyr. ‘Get off the cross; we need the wood’, I said. I ain’t ashamed, Bucky.”

Bucky squeezes him, and his face is scrunched in pain.

“I know, Steve, lord, _I know_. Just, please, _please_.” His eyes open, and they’re full of the absolute primal terror Steve feels vibrating into his own bones like a radio frequency of uncertain dread.

Steve lets out his tight breath and lets his hackles fall. He wants to fight this, just like he has every time it’s come up, with every molecule in his body, but he knows this isn’t the time, nor the place.

“Just for tonight. Please, just let’s have this.” Bucky whispers, and Steve nods fervently.

“Of course, Buck. Always. Whatever you need, I’ll always be there for you; I’m with you to the end of the line, remember. No matter what that looks like.”

Bucky nods his understanding and cuddles in closer, letting Steve bury his face into his throat so Bucky can shove his nose in Steve’s hair. They tangle their legs in a familiar knot, keeping them pressed together as tight as possible from top to bottom.

“God, I love you, kid. Jesus Christ, but I do.” Bucky says into his hair, his voice ragged.

Steve lets out a shaky breath.

“I love you too, Buck. And I’ll see you again real soon, I swear it.”

Ʊ Ω Ʊ

Bucky looks small now.

They’re standing far apart, both naked as jaybirds in a crowd of 30 other equally nude men, and Bucky looks small.

The showers at basecamp are crowded and full of dirty soldiers enjoying their first shower in many weeks. The beaten and battered 107th is getting clean, and the steamy air is full of satisfied groans of delight.

Steve doesn’t know anyone’s name yet, but there’s a constant stream of men clapping him on his massive soapy shoulders with a loud wet _smack_ and saying “ _Captain America!”_. Steve just smiles a polite smile and tries to stop himself looking at the lone figure, unmoving under the stream of the showerhead.

Bucky hasn’t picked up a bar of soap, washed his blue pale skin, or even moved with the press of dirty men clamoring for a spot under a spigot. He just stands, slightly apart from the other men, eyes unseeing, water running down his lean body. His ribs stand out, as do his collar bones, and his muscles look cut into him like a marble sculpture, without a spare square inch of fat to pad him.

Bucky looks _small_ to Steve now.

“Captain America! You’re going to be a legend, mate!” says a Tommy soldier with a thick mustache and a big poorly stitched wound on his cheek, “A damn legend, home and abroad, I swear it. I owe you my life, I’ll never forget it.” He puts both his hands on Steve’s shoulders and tries to give him a shake without much success.

Steve’s attention snaps back to his own personal space, and he puts on his big showy stage smile.

“You don’t owe me anything, soldier. Just doing my duty, same as you.”

The Tommy beams and smacks Steve’s meaty shoulders again, two more times, _smack smack_ , and then moves away out of Steve’s shower.

Steve’s eyes flick back to where Bucky’d been standing, and all of his guts lurch when he realizes that Bucky isn’t there any longer. He’s disappeared between one blink and the next, and as Steve looks around the clamoring mass of bodies and bruised skin, he can’t spot him.

He rinses quickly as he can, perhaps a bit more cursorily than he should considering the thing’s he’s done and places he’s been since his last shower before this, but he can’t forget that blank look on Bucky’s face.

He’d looked like a man who’s been haunted by many hungry and bloody-minded ghosts, and Steve hates the idea of him being alone somewhere.

He manages to escape the shower after only a handful more aggressive and heartfelt thanks, trying hard not to just brush them off but barely able to keep focused. He jumps into a non-descript clean uniform and walks out into camp, which is dark now and glowing from a large fire where a few men from the 107th are burning their filthy clothes. Steve glances at the myriad faces as he stalks by on long legs, watching for Bucky without much real hope he’ll find him this easy.

He does see the man with the red mustache that Bucky’d apparently been chummy with, and raises a hand to him.

“Soldier!” Steve says, jogging a bit to close the gap, “Sorry, I forgot your- ”

“Dugan, for my sins. Boys call me Dum Dum. What can I do for you, Cap?”

The man is so sincerely friendly that Steve is caught on the backfoot for a moment before he’s able to recover, “Sergeant Barnes. Uh, your sergeant, you seen him? He left the showers and I lost track of him. Wanted to check on him before I hit the hay.”

Dum Dum smirks around an unlit slightly crooked French cigarette, and jerks his thumb in the direction of the dark path into the woods that Steve knows leads to the latrines.

“Buggered off that way. Said all the noise of the camp was giving him a headache, and I don’t blame him. Forgot how _loud_ camp is.”

“Oh. Uh, alright. Thanks, Dum Dum.” Steve considers saluting, but opts out and just gives a friendly nod before resuming his walk through camp.

The latrine trail is well guarded by lookouts, but it is dark, and at night is especially spooky and isolated. Steve looks along the path, through the patches of light from the lanterns hanging on the trees, and even with his perfect vision and enhanced night vision, can’t make out a figure beyond the lone sentry with a rifle and a whistle, leaning against a tree and smoking.

“Bucky?” he says into the night, looking around him at the dark trunks which make a blue and silver cage in the low light.

A very distant boom of something exploding is the only noise, consistent with their position near the front. From his post a hundred yards or so away, the lookout coughs and spits loudly.

“Bucky!” Steve says again, louder this time, and he squints another way in the darkness, trying to pick out a silhouette. “Bucky!”

“Would you shut up, you idiot?” the snarl comes from right behind him, and Steve almost knocks into him when he whips around.

“ _Bucky_.” He says, relief dousing the anxious flame inside his chest. He puts both hands on Bucky’s shoulders, only to be swatted away immediately. Bucky’s eyes are red rimmed and watery, and even bluer for it, and there’s purple circles beneath them so deep they seem painted on. His hair is still wet like he didn’t bother to try dry or comb it.

“The hell are you doing out here, hollering my name like some kid you lost at the zoo? This is a fucking _war_.” Bucky is glaring, and Steve can feel in the air that he’s barely holding together.

_He hid in the woods because he didn’t want anyone to see him fall apart._

Steve takes a small step closer, tries to make himself seem smaller, “Buck. Please, let me--”

“ _Let you_ nothing.” Bucky hisses and steps away from Steve’s advance. He looks at the sentry, who is not even facing their direction, and then back at Steve, his handsome face twisted into an ugly sneer that’s angry, irritated and impatient. “We ain’t doing this now. Meet me back here at twenty three hundred sharp, and don’t get caught. And _don’t_ yell my fucking name when you get here.” And with that, he’s stalking back towards camp, leaving Steve alone in the woods without a backward glance.

Steve flounders alone in the dark, watching Bucky’s back as it grows smaller into the bright lights of camp.

He isn’t sure what to make of that interaction, considering Bucky’s never spoken to him with that level of obvious animosity before, but he’s at least relieved that Bucky apparently does want to speak to him at some point. Steve knows he has a lot to answer for, and he also knows that if he and Bucky were on the outs, he couldn’t stand it. He’s not sure who he is, really, if he doesn’t have Bucky.

Steve returns to camp, back to his tent, only to be redirected to a larger and fancier lodging closer to the command tent. Apparently his effects have been moved for him, which is a bit bizarre, but when he sees all his things set out tidily in the little room, he relaxes a bit. He combs his hair, puts a bit of pomade into it and slicks it carefully away from his face. He shaves with the little mirror, dish and razor set out for him. He pours over a few topographical maps of the land between them and the front, makes notes in the margins to show Agent Carter in the morning.

And, as he does all these things, he keeps his eyes on the time. The hours seem to drag, slow like cold syrup, and he feels both wildly antsy and too scared to move from his room.

What can he say to Bucky, other than fall on his knees and beg forgiveness? He’s sorry that Bucky is upset, but not sorry he came here, that he became a science experiment, not sorry he went rogue, and never, _ever_ sorry he rescued Bucky from certain death and torture? He knows none of this will go over well, and he isn’t ready for Bucky to shun him completely. He’s never borne Bucky’s anger particularly well.

When it’s finally _, finally_ eleven, he peeps through a crack in the door and watches a few servicemen carrying papers disappear before he bolts out his door and down the hall. The night air is still quite warm, and crickets are chirruping an absolute symphony in the starlight. Steve is able to skirt the few walking patrols relatively easily, and he makes a perimeter of the camp in the darkness. The trail leading into the woods is still illuminated by oil lanterns, and at the mouth of it, Steve sees someone having a smoke in the little puddle of light.

_“Shit._ ” He hisses under his breath, looking around. He doesn’t particularly want to get written up for not being in his bed at this hour, but then, he isn’t sure if a Captain even can be written up for that kind of thing. He didn’t exactly get a briefing pamphlet on his new station of authority.

The darkness is thick as fabric between the trees, and Steve can’t make out a hiding figure between them. And, considering their last interaction, he isn’t about to call his name.

He’s about to take a step towards the smoking soldier, perhaps just walk by him and hope for the best, when something light but hard _thwack_ s him directly between the shoulder blades.

Steve whips around, and Bucky is standing there, arms crossed.

Steve blinks at him in the darkness, and Bucky just beckons him closer, not waiting for Steve as he makes a beeline into the edge of the forest. Steve jogs a bit to catch up, ducking under a branch and almost tripping over a fallen log.

“Where are we going?” he hisses, pushing aside the arm of a bush trying to stab him in the eyes.

“Shut up. Just be quiet and come on.” Bucky replies shortly, and keeps forging ahead.

They walk for quite some time, weaving slightly but following one general direction away from camp. After a while, the forest thins a bit into a field of ferns instead of thick underbrush, making walking easier and considerably quieter. The trunks of the huge trees are covered in moss, and the air smells sweet and alive.

It’s eerily beautiful, and about as far from home as Steve’s ever felt.

Bucky finally stops walking when they reach a tidy little glen with a fallen log in it, surrounded by soft arms of large ferns. He doesn’t turn, just freezes in his tracks. Steve can see his shoulders rising with fast breaths.

Steve comes to a stop too, about fifteen feet behind him, and looks around.

“Uh. Pretty spot, Buck.” He ventures carefully.

Bucky turns, very slowly, and his eyes, which should be gigantic and silvery in the moonlight, are shadowed and dark and narrowed with suspicion.

He comes closer to Steve, each step measured. His arms are straight down by his sides, and his hands balled into angry fists.

He stops and glares at Steve from six feet away, eyes roaming over every new, stretched inch of him. Steve can almost feel it like a touch, but the touch is angry.

When he looks back at Steve’s face, his jaw sets and his dagger sharp brows have that hard crease between them.

“Well, come on. Might as well show me.” He says. His words and voice are flippant, but he looks like a lost doll with half its stuffing removed, strands of cotton hanging out of every seam.

Steve looks down at himself, then up at Bucky.

“Show you?” Steve says, and holds his arms open like a scarecrow, “Not much to look at, buddy. It’s about what you’d imagine.”

He thought Bucky might deflate a bit, but he just looks angrier than before. He makes a snarling noise and charges forwards, his hands leaping at him and shredding at Steve’s buttons.

Steve flinches back at first, then holds still and watches as Bucky rips his shirt open, tugging gracelessly and hard until his shirt is half untucked and hanging off his arms.

Bucky stands there, staring at his body and panting, looking even more confused and annoyed. His hands come up and start to _feel_ , fingers and palms hot and dry. He grabs handfuls of Steve’s flesh, at his side, his chest, on his shoulders, and squeezes hard. It pinches and tugs but Steve doesn’t resist.

Steve just watches Bucky’s face, his own heart hammering. He isn’t sure what response he’s supposed to have, but he can feel that something is very much wrong.

Bucky just keeps dragging his hands over him, hard, as if he’s trying to find hidden stitching of seams or a latch of a secret door, and eventually Steve breaks.

“ _Buck_.” He says, catching Bucky’s wrists as his hands grab at the skin around his middle.

Bucky just starts to shake his head and tries to yank his arms away.

“It’s not real. It’s not real, it can’t be real, _it can’t be real_.”

“It’s real. I’m real, Buck.” Steve says, trying to sound gentle and calming, “I know it don’t look it, but it’s all real.”

Bucky’s head starts to shake more, and then his face is crumpling as he drags in a huge breath.

“ _No_ , it’s not real, _it looks real but it isn’t_. It was _never real,_ I thought it was, over and over, but it was _never real_ , I’m going to wake up and it’s all going to be fake. I’ll _still be there and it will all be gone_.” He whimpers, and he starts to sag to the ground.

Steve pulls on his arms, tugging Bucky roughly to him, and holds on. He wraps his arms around him, and _God he’s so small_ , and he squeezes him against his giant body.

“Bucky. Bucky, Bucky, shhh.” He says, pressing his face into his hair as the man in question shakes and cries against him.

That facility. That fucking doctor and his _fucking_ experiments. Steve knew bad things had happened there, but he hadn’t really _realized_ just what Bucky had meant when he’d said he’s been “tested on”.

“ _It’s all so wrong, Steve._ ” Bucky says, his face shoved hard against Steve’s bare collarbone. “I feel like it’s all _wrong_.”

Steve shakes his head, holds Bucky closer and nuzzles his face in tight.

“I’m right here. I promise you, with everything I have, I _promise_ you, this is real. I’m real, and you’re real, and we’re together.” He starts to rock them a little, for lack of anything else he can do.

Bucky draws another gasping breath, and Steve feels his ribcage swell under his arms.

“I don’t feel real. And you don’t look real.” His voice is very small, and all the blustery bluster and rage of earlier has disappeared as entirely as if it never existed.

Steve leans back a bit, gives them space enough to look at each other.

“You feel pretty real to me.” He slides his hands up Bucky’s arms, squeezes his shoulders, “and I know I definitely feel real.” He tries a little smile.

Bucky just stares at him, his face damp and eyes looking glassy and lost.

Steve takes in Bucky’s face, the hollowness of his cheeks and the guileless misery written in every line next to his eyes. He lifts a hand and carefully tips Bucky’s chin up, then tilts his own face down and presses a kiss, very gentle, to his unresisting mouth.

The kiss is damp with tears and unmoving, and Bucky lets out a shaking breath across Steve’s cheek and jaw. It’s very chaste with barely any pressure at all, as sweet and tender as the first buds of spring, and Steve blinks his eyes open as he pulls back only a little way.

“And _this_ is real. You and me, and how we feel. That’s always been real.”

Bucky’s eyes still look wild, and he grabs hard, pinching handfuls of Steve’s skin on his sides and presses his forehead to Steve’s neck.

“Show me. Show me, please.” He begs.

Steve tries to catch Bucky’s eye again, tries to gauge where his head is at.

“…Bucky.” He says carefully, trying to extricate Bucky’s harsh grip from his skin, put some space between them so he can think.

Bucky flinches at his tone, and then when he looks back up, that hard, determined look is back.

“I need you to show me.” He says, and then he brings his hands up and tugs Steve’s face back down, and kisses him hard, without delicacy or care for their teeth.

Steve groans at the taste of him, having gone so long without, and he is too surprised to resist when Bucky shoves him back into a tree, grunting when the air comes out of his lungs in a huff. Bucky pries his mouth open and shoves his tongue in, slippery and demanding, and Steve is momentarily floating on a warm cloud of relief and joy.

But he knows Bucky is twisted up inside.

He tries to gently pry himself loose, but Bucky is persistent, grabbing hold and not letting go.

“Bucky, wait¸ _wait_.” Steve carefully shoves himself free, holding Bucky away by the arms and using his new, massive strength to keep him there.

Bucky just glares, breathing hard, mouth red and tempting as a loose dollar bill in the wind.

“You said it,” he tells Steve, “You said you _feel_ it. I need to feel it too, Steve, need to feel _you_ before I fall apart here.” His jaw sets stubbornly, but his eyes betray just how true that last statement is, and under Steve’s hands, his skeleton is shaking.

Steve holds him tighter, lets out a shuddering breath.

“Buck, you _know_ I want you. But last time we were together, that last night… you made it clear, you don’t want this. And you’re so… I _can’t_ trust that you’re thinking clearly right now. I love you, Bucky, I _love you_ , and I always will, but-”

“But _now_ who’s being the martyr?” Bucky snaps, and with the limited freedom of his arms he grabs the open sides of Steve’s shirt and tries to _pull_ them closer. “I never _didn’t_ want you, you idiot, I wanted you so goddamn bad I died every day I didn’t _have_ you. I _couldn’t_ have you, but _now_ , I’m telling you I _need_ you.” Bucky tugs again, trying to pull Steve to him.

Steve groans, closes his eyes. “ _Bucky_.”

“What was it you kept telling me? ‘Get off the cross; we need the wood’? Well, I’m saying it now.” Bucky tries again in vain to pull, but Steve’s arms are like metal braces and are unyielding. Bucky makes a frustrated whining noise in his throat, and his façade cracks again as he almost whimpers, “ _Please, Stevie,_ for Christ sakes.” His stubbornly furrowed brow has gone from scowling to stricken, and its heart wrenching to behold.

Steve is helpless to deny Bucky, even more so when he thought only 48 hours earlier that he’d lost him forever. It doesn’t help that his body is desperate for Bucky’s too, dragging towards and into him like a celestial body into the gravity of a nearby planet.

He lets out a breath and nods, relaxes his elbows, and immediately Bucky is on him.

Bucky shoves his body hard into him, pulls Steve in tight and again he forces Steve’s mouth open with his tongue and the angle of his jaw. He feels slight in Steve’s arms now, as opposed to solid and large like he used to, and some perverse, dark part of Steve likes it very much.

“I want you to fuck me.” Bucky says right into his mouth, his breath hot like an open furnace door.

Steve groans again, kisses Bucky harder, answers Bucky’s tongue with his, frantic and delicious. “I- I never- we never-” he mumbles, having a hard time forming a coherent thought, let alone sentence.

They never did it that way. It was always the reverse.

“I don’t give a shit. You’re gonna fuck me, Rogers, until I feel it, and then keep fucking me.” He’s clawing at Steve’s trousers now, and Steve is so hard the waistband of his undershorts is pulling away from his abdomen, making a perfect target for Bucky to gracelessly shove his hand into. He closes his dry, warm fingers around Steve without any hesitation, and they both make obscene noises into the quiet darkness of the forest.

“Jesus Christ, your _cock,_ Steve.” Bucky keens, and kisses Steve hard again, his other hand grabbing and tugging at the short hairs on the back of Steve’s head. He breaks away a tiny distance, and strokes the scorching flesh in his hand, “It’s gigantic, you shithead.” His voice is dazed but undeterred.

Steve flushes even harder and grimaces, his cheeks bright and hot, and he smashes his face into Bucky’s neck.

“I grew all over, Buck.” He grumbles, pawing with his big meat hands at Bucky’s back and the perfectly shaped peach of his ass.

“Take it all off. I wanna see it all.” Bucky says raggedly, and Steve is shoved again so his shirt can be dragged all the way off. Bucky makes short work of his pants, too, pushing them down his legs where they gather over his boots.

“You look like a cartoon.” Bucky pants, and goes right back to marveling at Steve’s dick, with both hands now.

Steve puts a hand on a tree to steady himself, then hooks the other behind Bucky’s waist and reels him in like a dame at a dance, kissing him for all he’s worth, breathing hot right into his mouth. Bucky lets it happen, seems encouraged even, still palming Steve’s cock and making wonton little gasps as he breathes.

Bucky dips his head and bites and sucks at Steve’s neck, all while making a tight fist around him and slowly, torturously jerking him off. Steve can feel his dick leaking, can feel his pulse thudding away in it, and he knows he’s probably holding on to Bucky too hard, making bruises.

“I got stuff. I brought it.” Bucky pants, pulling away to look at Steve’s face. He looks like he’s been ravished already, his mouth bright red and swollen, his eyes pinked and watery, hair in disarray. He’s still in his clothes, though, and Steve needs to remedy that.

Steve nods, goes to peel off Bucky’s half open uniform, but Bucky steps away and just turns, dropping his trousers in the most sinful way imaginable and holding on to the trunk of a tree with both hands.

Steve’s mind blanks momentarily, before sputtering back to life.

“Bucky, I wanna see you. It’s been… I don’t want it to be just…” he isn’t sure how to tell him that he wants to make love to him, not just fuck him, but he knows that isn’t what Bucky’s asking for.

Bucky hangs his head, and Steve sees the tension return all the way up his spine in a wave.

“ _Please, Steve._ ” He says, and Steve gives in after a deep breath. He’ll do anything for Bucky, and this is no exception.

He indulges himself for a moment, laying across Bucky’s back and slipping his hands into the front of his shirt as he pulls him tightly against his chest, feeling that smooth, hot skin and the smattering of chest hair between his lean pectorals. Again he is struck that Bucky _feels_ small like this, and Steve is shocked to realize how much he likes it.

He noses at the back of Bucky’s ear, bites at his earlobe and grinds his cock into the cleft of his bare ass. Bucky makes a broken little gasp, and Steve pulls him upright, back to front, and keeps him there with an arm locked around his chest. Steve breathes right into his ear as he speaks.

“Where?” Steve says, and Bucky immediately catches on, because he shudders a little and makes an aborted reach for his dropped trousers.

Steve lets him go just long enough to stoop and find the little tin, distracted on his way back up by the quivering thighs right next to his face, and the lovely roundness of Bucky’s ass. He hesitates for a moment, and then decides _fuck it_ , _this seems to be the mood he wants_ , and nips gently at one cheek, leaving red little teeth marks.

Bucky yelps, hands coming back up to brace against the tree in front of them, but the way he arches his back betrays him. Steve presses himself back into him, slides a hand up his shirt and over his chest to feel his racing heart just beneath his breastbone.

“I couldn’t resist.” Steve says, and Bucky half laughs, half groans in response.

Steve kisses at Bucky’s neck, is rewarded when Bucky tilts his head away to let him get at more of that olive skin. Steve drags his nose and lips along the tight lines of muscle, shoves his tongue in the little crease behind his ear. Bucky, who apparently wanted it rough, is going increasingly pliant under Steve’s ministrations, and its awakening something primal and sharp in Steve’s chest.

Steve wants to make him all his, make him _know_ , make him _feel_ , and it’s not a particularly gentle impulse, but rather a hungry and hot one, one which wants to growl and hiss and claim.

It’s a heady cocktail, and he’s sure Bucky can feel it too.

Steve isn’t particularly gentle when he shoves his slippery thumb into Bucky, tugging at the rim and biting Bucky’s neck in abandon when the man in question makes a keening whimper and arches into him.

Not gentle like Bucky had been, the first time and every subsequent occasion after, loving and diligent and slow. But that had been when they were young, stupid, at home and safe in Brooklyn and in love. Now they were in love in a place where love meant nothing, they were as far from home as anyone could ever be, their bodies had been taken away from them in every possible sense, and it was the middle of a fucking war.

“Agh, _agh_ , Jesus, Steve.” Bucky gasps, pushes him hips back into Steve’s hand, and his knees immediately go out when Steve’s thumb hits his prostate.

Fortunately, Steve’s arm is holding him up by the middle, wrapping them tight together like a harness.

“ _I got you, Buck._ ” Steve says into his ear, and replaces his thumb with two fingers, using their breadth to rather gracelessly shove his way in deeper, and Bucky turns his head just enough that their lips brush haphazardly. Bucky makes a little whine, grabs Steve’s hair and holds his mouth close so they can breathe the same damp air, gasping sharp and loud in the night air.

“Do it. Come on, do it.” Bucky says. Steve pauses a moment, but Bucky is ahead of him in his hesitancy, “I know, _I know_ you wanna be gentle but I just can’t right now, Steve, I need you to, I _need you to_ -” his voice breaks in desperation that can’t be given words, and Steve nods against him.

“Okay Buck. I’m all yours.”

Bucky’s breath is ragged, and his body and neck is a lax curve held in a wanton and debauched manner usually reserved for only the lewdest of paintings or portraits. His eyes are dark and gleaming in the moonlight, and Steve is so goddamn hard for him, he’s honestly worried he might blow the moment he touches his own cock to apply the slick to it. He keeps his movements perfunctory, grips himself at the base hard to try calm himself down. The cool air isn’t enough to calm his exposed skin; his blood feels like every vein is traced with hellfire.

When he positions himself, the image of the head of his cock nudging at that delicate, twitching hole is so intensely erotic he bites his own cheek and lets out an entirely involuntary groan.

“ _Bucky, I, Jesus, I, shit-_ ” Steve’s fingers on the hand that’s gripping and spreading one of Bucky’s perfectly round ass cheeks is leaving dark pink marks that will undoubtedly only darken before morning. The moment of penetration is like a supernova, bursting into flames right behind Steve’s eyes and lower spine and inside his balls somehow, and Bucky still hasn’t let go of him, so they’re pinned together.

Steve pushes in a bit further, or tries to- Bucky is _tight_ , the angle difficult, and the jelly more greasy than slippery. Bucky whines a bit, and his spine shifts enough to try encourage Steve deeper inside. It works, but the heat is so sudden and all encompassing, it sets Steve off before he can even tighten his hold on Bucky and hold him still.

He comes so hard and sudden his vision slips as he shudders and gasps into Bucky’s sweaty hair, pulse after pulse of sharp and magma hot pleasure so ridiculous he forgets to breath or even to think.

“Bucky, _Bucky_ , Bucky, I, _fuck.._.” He whimpers, holding him tight to his chest and letting out a huge gasp of air as vast as if he’s been deep diving. He leans back just enough, feels the sticky wetness now around him as he pulls out of the clutch of Bucky’s body. There’s a lot of it, leaking from where it barely was inside, running thickly along the crease of his ass.

But Steve’s still hard, his dick arrogantly red and rigid, because apparently he’s a miracle of science in more ways than just one.

“Steve, you- ” Bucky says, using his free hand to hold them up against the tree. He turns his head, and Steve just grinds his forehead into his temple like an animal, rough and affectionate and blind with desire. 

Steve is still panting, still shaking, but he nudges the head of his cock back into Bucky, and Bucky’s breathing hitches as he’s able to slide in even further on the mess he left. Steve thrusts his hips, and they both moan at the same moment when Steve sheaths himself in one hard movement.

“ _Ah, shit._ ” Bucky says, and Steve wraps both his arms around him, one on his lower abdomen and the other over his bare chest above his hammering heart. “Christ, Stevie, you don’t ever stay down, do you?”

Steve hums at him, pulls out a fraction and pushes back in, _hard_ , and Bucky throws his head back onto Steve’s shoulder. Steve puts his mouth on his neck and begins to fuck him, unapologetically hard, carving a space for himself inside the love of his life with his cock, his soul, his everything, hoping to stay there forever.

Bucky’s hole is tight as a vice and so, _so_ hot inside, Steve can’t get enough, and he can barely see straight as the syrupy pleasured haze from his first orgasm melds seamlessly into the urgency for the next.

“I love you, Bucky, I love you.” He says into his hair, eyes screwed shut. It feels so important to say, like the world will end if he doesn’t make sure Bucky knows.

Bucky is just gasping, holding on to the tree with both hands now just to stay upright as Steve drives into him, relentless and desperate. Steve lets his hands move to his bare hips, fingers so long they can span the sides of his pelvis, and his massive strength means Bucky has no option but to let himself be filled as Steve sees fit.

“Come on, Stevie, _shit, fuck,_ that’s it, Steve.” Bucky’s voice is staccato as he looks over his shoulder at him, pink mouth wide open. He looks utterly sinful, debauched and barely lucid, and Steve leans forward so he can kiss him, caress him, hold him close as he fucks him. He wants to do what Bucky asked, fuck him rough and hard and merciless, but the tenderness in his soul can’t be bargained with or negotiated.

“You’re my everything, Bucky, you know that, you’re my everything, I’d die without you, I would.” Steve chants, still fucking into him. Bucky moans, nods and pants.

“I know. I know, Steve.” he puts his hand back into Steve’s hair, lets them be pressed together, the obscene sounds of their coupling echoing off the deaf trees.

Steve reaches around Bucky, wraps a hand around his cock, which feels exactly the same as it always did, only now it fills his hand perfectly rather than looking obscenely large, and begins to jerk him off. He wants him to come, wants him to feel the love Steve pours into him as viscerally as Steve does.

Bucky keens, breath ragged and desperate.

Their coupling is simultaneously rough and wildly sweet, desperate to the point of miasmic madness, but disarming in its intimacy. It’s an ungentle lovemaking, unholy but vital.

“You’re all I think about. All day, you’re all I think about.” Bucky whimpers, body tightening in pleasure, and part of Steve wants to sob in relief and happiness.

“It’s the same for me.” He pants, angling his dick best he can to try hit that spot inside he knows will make Bucky come, “You’re all mine, Buck, I’m all yours.” He must hit it, because Bucky yelps and then moans long and obscene.

“There, Steve, _there, fuck, there._ ” He’s almost crying now, falling apart, and then Steve’s hand is suddenly slick and hot with come as Bucky goes off in his hand, his ass clenching hard and rhythmically around him.

Steve groans, huge and uncontrolled at the feeling around his cock, shoves hard and deep as the clutch around him twitches. He comes after only a few hard thrusts, holding Bucky so tight he probably hurts him, forcing himself and his seed as deep into his body as he can, pulse after pulse. It’s an animal feeling, something base and depraved, and his knees go out and down to the mossy earth, pulling Bucky back with him onto his lap as he goes down, never separating from him.

They both drag in huge mouthfuls of air, Bucky in a boneless sprawl, his head back on Steve’s shoulder. Steve cradles him, his body lurching and twitching through the electric aftershocks. He can feel his come leaking around his dick, each little spasm of Bucky’s body letting out more. It’s lovely and filthy, and he wouldn’t pull out for anything right at this moment.

“I love you so much, Buck.” Steve says into the flushed, sweaty skin of his throat, “I was so scared I lost you, I thought I would go crazy.” His chest is so big, his heavy breathing rocks them both like they’re on the sea.

Bucky takes a moment yet to catch his breath, panting out the words, “We both went crazy years ago, ain’t nothin’ new.”

“I’m never letting you go now. You can’t make me, I won’t do it.” Steve says, eyes rammed closed, face shoved into the sweaty join of Bucky’s neck and shoulder.

Bucky heaves a heavy sigh, but doesn’t try disentangle himself from Steve.

“You can’t tell the future, Steve. We’re in a war, remember? Shit happens.”

Steve squeezes him tighter, buries in deeper.

“Ya and I’m tellin ya, I ain’t letting it happen.”

Bucky shifts in his lap, probably in response to being held too tight in huge anaconda arms, and they both groan as Steve’s cock slips out of him, wet and heavy.

Bucky shudders at the sensation then relaxes, sagging tiredly, and when Steve opens his eyes to look at him, Bucky’s are closed, face tilted to the sky, reaching neck bared as if receiving a benediction. His skin looks opalescent blue in the filtered moonlight, glistening with drying sweat and Steve’s spit.

He looks positively holy, like a blessed being trapped on Earth, and Steve is barely holding him down, stopping him from ascending back into heaven.

Bucky swells in his arms, dragging in a huge, exhausted breath, and his eyes slide open just a sliver, showing a slash of bright lightning blue.

“I dunno, Stevie. From what I seen here, I don’t think you get much of a choice.”

Ʊ Ω Ʊ

When he walks into his room and drops his duffle on the floor, and he sees the huge king-sized bed stretching away in soft looking welcome, Steve realizes he hasn’t actually slept since the day _before_ Ultron escaped Tony’s lab.

He kicks the door closed behind him, and when he hears the latch click, he finally allows himself to sag. The tension radiating across his shoulders and holding his spine in a rigid and unyielding line finally is allowed to dissipate.

He reaches back and pulls the shield off his back, letting it fall to the plush carpet with a dull ringing noise. He rips pieces of his uniform off himself, letting them fall where they may as he walks sluggishly to the adjoining bathroom, bouncing off the doorjamb and finally collapsing against the glass shower door. Super strength or no, his body is _tired_ , his soul is _tired_ , everything he’s made of is fucking _tired._

The hot water and the sublime water pressure feels _incredible_ beating down on his back, helping the deep bruises and aches to finish healing as he stands with his forehead to the wall. He doesn’t like to waste water, certainly not in this wasteful new century, but he’ll give himself some leeway just this once. He needs this.

Once he finally musters the strength to soap himself and rinse off, then begrudgingly step out of the endless hot water, it’s been almost an hour. The glass is all steamed, every surface shiny and slippery, and the mirror is a blurry blob. He towels himself haphazardly, dabs at his hair and declares himself dry as necessary, before wandering back to his duffel and jumping into the first clean article of clothing, which turn out to be basketball shorts that are too loose in the waist and fall indecently low on his hips, not that it matters.

He crawls up the bed and faceplants onto the pillow, groaning in joy at the enveloping softness. He barely gets under the comforter before he’s out like a light.

He’s awoken some impossible-to-determine amount of time later, by a sixth sense.

The room is still dark, and nothing is outwardly any different than it was…

…and yet, alarm bells, honed and sharpened in war and strife, are clanging in his head.

Steve is on his back- apparently, he rolled over at some point- and he slowly revolves his eyes without moving his head. There’s not much to see- it’s a new room at the end of a wing of the Avengers compound, isolated and quiet like he likes. It’s unremarkable and hard to hide in.

…and just as he thinks this, a piece of darkness detaches itself and solidifies into the shape of the Winter Soldier, shadowy and almost invisible in dark clothing.

Steve goes perfectly still, watching as Bucky… is he Bucky? It’s hard to tell… comes slowly closer. He doesn’t appear to have any weapons in his hands, but Steve’s cheekbone and jaw can attest that that metal arm is weapon enough.

“Bucky.” Steve says, cautious and low.

The figure ignores him, comes to stand directly next to the bed, looking down at him. The dampness of his eyes shine behind his dark hair, but that’s the only visible part of his face. Steve can hear him breathing only if he strains his enhanced ears, slow and even.

Steve feels impossibly vulnerable, and he can’t help but think of his shield, useless on the floor by the door. He tenses his body, power coiled in his hands and arms, ready to throw himself out of the way of a gleaming silver fist.

Then, in a hoarse voice that is still achingly familiar, Bucky says “Don’t move, please.”

Steve blinks, and then goes absolutely rigid again as the figure in black steps over him and straddles his hips in a fluid and graceful motion, fast and purposeful. He is perched above him, and he tilts forward slightly so their faces are only two or so feet apart.

Steve doesn’t move; hell, he hardly dares to breath. There’s a flare of hope in his chest, however, at this strange turn of events. If he wanted to kill Steve, then he’s pretty sure he’d be dead by now.

They just stare at each other’s dark forms, silence padding the room like a heavy cloud. Steve can kind of make out the shape of his nose, the edge of his chin, maybe the darkness of an eyebrow.

“Can I turn on the lamp?” Steve says, and it’s his turn to have a hoarse voice.

Bucky doesn’t reply for a solid seven seconds, before nodding, sharp and once.

Steve reaches, slowly and carefully, to his bedside table, aware that Bucky is watching his hand move, and hits the switch that flicks on the low warm reading light, throwing their bizarre position into sharp relief.

Steve looks back at Bucky, and Bucky is looking back at him.

He’s beautiful, that much will always be true. His dark hair looks clean, healthy even, and his skin is pale but not sallow or bruised. His eyes look tired yet alert, curiously sharp as they examine Steve carefully. He tilts closer, slowly, until the ends of his hair hang low enough they almost touch Steve’s cheek.

His dark eyebrows very slowly draw together, and his deep pink lips almost pout in curious confusion. His eyes are so, so bright blue as they examine every part of Steve’s face.

Then Steve flinches as his hand, the flesh one, comes up and presses against his forehead, shoving his head down into the plush pillow. Bucky tilts closer still, so their noses almost touch, and his face looks a tad annoyed.

“You were mine once. And I was yours.” It seems like a question, but it isn’t really phrased like one.

The relief Steve feels, however, is a surge of warm, sweet, euphoria. He _remembers_.

“Yes.” Steve croaks, and his hands spasm with a desire to reach up and touch, which he reins in. “Yes, I was. I am.”

Bucky watches his mouth move, then looks back up to Steve’s eyes.

“I wasn’t supposed to want you. I wanted you but it was bad. Why was it bad?”

Steve immediately shakes his head, or tries to, but the hand pressing on his forehead hinders that a bit.

“It wasn’t bad. It was the _world_ that was bad, Buck, not us. We were in love, but back then, that wasn’t allowed. It is now, it’s okay now. But it was never bad, and never wrong.”

Bucky’s face does something strange, as if a great guilt is almost alleviated but he doesn’t dare trust it.

“You’re sure?”

Steve nods as best he can, and he carefully reaches up between them and places his palm on Bucky’s cheek. He flinches at first, but then relaxes again.

“I’m so sure. You had nothing to be ashamed of, still don’t.”

Bucky’s face is crumpling, as if this is all too much.

“I just… I have these pictures, these _feelings_ , where I can remember, I wanted you so bad it hurt, it _ached_ , but I wasn’t allowed because I was…because we were….” He drags in a hard breath, crunches his eyes closed, and shakes his head a tiny bit.

He opens his eyes again, and he looks steadier.

“I thought maybe it wasn’t real. I had to know. I had to _see_.”

“I understand. And I’m so glad you’re here.” Steve says, and strokes the soft skin under his eye with his thumb.

Bucky relaxes his hand on Steve’s forehead, lets it track along Steve’s cheek and jaw like a tracing of his profile. He’s examining Steve’s face again, cataloging every part of it, tallying like it’s the most important data in the world. He meets his eyes finally, and his eyes are shining.

“I still want you. I still feel it….” He trails off, strokes his thumb just under Steve’s lower lip, and his face finally falls, and Steve sees confused tears on his lashes, “…but it’s all so… broken in pieces.” Bucky finishes, and his voice breaks.

Steve wraps him in his arms as Bucky falls into him, and then they’re desperately latching on to each other. Steve closes his eyes, lets the waves of emotion crash over him, lets the deep throbbing ache of his broken heart seethe and surge deep in his chest as he cradles Bucky for the first time in this century. Joy, sadness, grief, regret, relief, happiness. It’s all a twisted knot deep inside him, inside them both, but feeling Bucky’s shaking breath against him, feeling his mismatched hands grab at his bare skin and not let go, it’s as real and alive as Steve’s felt since he woke from the ice. 

**Author's Note:**

> In many ways, this is for Voxofthevoid, who writes the best and most unholy Steve/Bucky and I adore every minute of it. God speed, you crazy devil you.


End file.
